At a Loss for Words
by miss.ouiser
Summary: Found this among some long-lost files. Humorous, I hope. Edith muses on the train. Set in S5. Rated T for one expletive. Probably a one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

At a Loss For Words

The weather was dreadful, even for England. Day after day of cold wind and pounding rain had turned the countryside into a seemingly endless landscape of mud and muck. Flooding had become commonplace, sparing not even the intrepid British rail system. What should have been a rather relaxing journey was now entering its fourth hour, with no end in sight. Trains were delayed, diverted and then cancelled altogether as travel conditions deteriorated. The third class passengers were packed in like sardines; passengers in first class were better off, but only just.

Lady Edith Crawley had been sharing her compartment with an elderly couple who dozed most of the journey, God bless them, and a middle-aged man with an apparently atrocious head cold who threatened to infect them all. If he wasn't sneezing he was blowing his bulbous nose into an increasingly moist handkerchief with much more noise and gusto than any civilized person would dare. Under other circumstances Edith may have felt some remote sympathy for him, but any such feelings were abolished by his continued habit of honking, snorting, hacking and grunting in a futile attempt to clear his head. It was as if someone were trying to strangle a pig using a goose. Edith gave up trying to read over an hour ago and instead began to entertain various thoughts of homicide that did not require her to actually touch the man.

She was musing over the feasibility of hanging him by his own scarf from the luggage rack when the train began to slow down as it approached York. Edith breathed a sigh of relief; with any luck, she would be home just in time to change for dinner before going directly to the dining room. She grimaced when she remembered that Mary's "desire of suitors" would all be there, and then chuckled softly to herself. In the past she would have been jealous of her sister's almost magical ability to attract men, all the while holding herself so aloof. Now, however, she wouldn't have one of them if she were forced to it. They were such a bland, homogenous bunch, pretty much evenly matched in looks, education, wealth and pedigree. All perfectly suitable, just waiting for Her Ladyship to grace one of them with her favor. Mary was welcome to them, Edith would wish her well when the time came, and she would actually mean it. There was only one person with whom Edith longed to share her life. And, ironically, it wasn't a man, but a chubby-cheeked infant with strawberry blonde curls.

"No, no, no. Mustn't think about that now," Edith mentally repeated the admonition, like some kind of prayer. It failed, of course, like it always did. How could she _not_ think about her baby? Granny and Aunt Rosamund must think her made of stone if they honestly believed she could forget about her daughter. But she did feel a need to keep her composure in public (she was English, after all) so she tried to divert her thoughts to other topics.

 _Michael Gregson._ Ah, therein lay more madness. Edith wished, not for the first time, that she would receive some sort of news. And in her more honest moments, she knew she wanted word of his death, because the thought of him being alive all this time without contacting her would hurt far, far more than learning he had died shortly after arriving in Munich…

 _Munich._ _Why Munich?_ To become a German citizen and obtain a divorce. But Munich was so far in the south of Germany, and the rumblings coming from Bavaria were disconcerting, to say the least. Michael said he wanted to write a book – perhaps about post-war Germany? Did she ever ask? But why not go to Hamburg, or even Berlin? It was closer to England than Munich, and perhaps they would have been able to arrange a rendezvous….stop…madness…madness…madness.

Edith shook her head to clear the mental demons. Speculation was the enemy of calm, and she must keep her wits about her. She had become rather adept at playing her part, at keeping up the appearance of the helpful, spinster daughter that her family had come to expect. If her parents noticed her melancholy demeanor, they merely assumed that she was still worried about Michael, over a year after he went missing. It would never occur to them that there was anything else going on in her life to make her so tired and sad. And it really was easier that way. Edith knew that she would have to do battle with them one day, but she needed to marshal her strength and resources well beforehand. Once begun, there would be no retreat.

"You're beginning to sound like an old soldier," Edith thought to herself. Old soldier…

 _Anthony._

If dwelling on Michael was madness, then thinking of Anthony must be absolute insanity. Well, thinking of him in a positive light, anyway. She should hate him or be overcome with coldness or thoughts of revenge. To be honest, she had felt all those things in the weeks after being publicly humiliated. But the three years since had changed her in so many ways. She wasn't the girl who had fallen in love with love, or the young woman who so desperately wanted to be married and out from under the shadows of Downton. She was an adult, a journalist, a publisher and a mother. Almost a mistress. Things were no longer the black and white of her girlhood. There were so many shades of grey, so many nuances to good and bad. And harboring a lingering fondness (Edith wouldn't call it love) for Sir Anthony Strallan fell squarely into the grey zone, alongside the unrelenting wish to speak with him one more time…

 _Madness and insanity. They should get me a cell. Lizzie Gregson and I could be roommates._

Edith chuckled to herself, earning a glare from Mr Plague, which she returned in spades. She was beyond relieved to see that he was gathering his things, obviously getting off the train in York. The sweet elderly couple was also preparing to leave, and Edith relished the thought that she might actually have the compartment to herself for the rest of the journey. As her three companions left the carriage, Edith closed her eyes and simultaneously reached her hands above her head and extended her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes and luxuriating in the feeling of stretching her dormant limbs. So lost was she in her cat-like maneuver that she did not at first notice the tall gentleman enter the compartment. The gentleman in question, however, noticed her immediately, but was not fast enough to beat a retreat without being seen. Edith's eyes snapped open.

For the first time in over three years, Lady Edith Crawley and Sir Anthony Strallan were together, face to face, within arm's reach of each other.

Edith, who made a more than respectable living with her magazine, who spent hours every day reading hundreds and thousands of words from authors, editors, advertisers and subscribers, who proved herself a success in the business of communication, was suddenly and inexplicably struck dumb, having forgotten the entire English language. She just stared, open-mouthed, like a landed carp.

Anthony, who was educated in the classics at Harrow, then Oxford (first in history, naturally), who was fluent in four languages, who was just returning from a grueling conference on the continent where the increasingly worrisome state of the German government had been examined and debated and questioned until the participants were hoarse, who was wanting nothing more than to return to his library at Locksley to immerse himself in words of peace and comfort and beauty, was not much better off. Staring into the eyes of the woman he had loved, abandoned, and tried to forget, he said the only word that came to mind:

"Shit."

Which was unfortunate.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you all so much for the enthusiastic response to this story. This is not as fluffy, and I decided to take a slightly different track here with Anthony and Edith. Hope you like it. Two more chapters after this, I think._

Edith recovered first. "Lovely to see you, too, Anthony." No response. "Anything else you'd care to say, preferably without swearing?" Edith waited expectantly as Anthony continued to stare at her, dumbfounded.

She saw it first in his eyes (still bluer than any eyes had a right to be) as comprehension finally dawned on him.

"Did I say that out loud?" he choked, aghast at his lapse in manners.

Edith caught her upper lip caught between her teeth, raised her eyebrows (she hadn't lived with Mary all these years and not picked up a thing or two), and nodded slowly. Embarrassment and frustration flitted across his features as Anthony passed his hand over his face with a weary sigh, looking much older than she knew him to be.

"Please forgive me, Lady Edith. That was inexcusable, and I certainly meant you no offense. Now, if you'll allow me, I will go and find accommodations in another part of the train. Please accept my apology, and I wish you well," Anthony said stiffly. He began to leave the compartment, but was brought to a halt by a single word.

"No."

"I beg your pardon?" Anthony sounded flummoxed, and just a bit annoyed. "'No'… what?"

"No, I won't allow you, you don't get to leave. You don't get to walk out on me again." Edith's voice remained steady, but she leveled Anthony with an icy stare. "Twice was quite enough. No, this time _I'll_ be the one leaving. You can remain behind and enjoy your solitude." Edith rose from her seat, preparing to make a dramatic exit.

Those sorts of things always looked so impressive in the films. Edith had imagined this scene on more than one occasion: she would sweep out of the room after delivering a soul-stirring, impassioned, crushing rebuke, slamming the door behind her, leaving Anthony crumpled in her wake. What really followed was far less awe-inspiring. Edith needed to gather up her coat and scarf, and one of her gloves had wedged itself between the back of the seat and the seat cushion. She dropped her purse onto the floor, and as she bent to retrieve it, her hat fell forward over her eyes. By the time she straightened up and had all her things, a full thirty seconds had elapsed, and she was face with a new problem: it was a pocket door, not a hinged one, so slamming it was problematic. And her hands were full, anyway. And Anthony had remained where he stood, blocking her escape. Edith realized she had been thwarted, and was now left to try and salvage her pride yet again. Bollocks.

She heard a sound emanate from Anthony – did he just _snort_ at her?

"You said that out loud."

Edith compressed her lips into a tight line, doing her best to ignore the growing amusement in Anthony's eyes. _Damn!_

Anthony was doing his best not to laugh. There really was nothing funny about the situation, except…well, meeting your ex-fiancé by accident on a rainy night in the last available train car and greeting her with an expletive, then watching as she attempted to escape with all the finesse of an elephant in a china shop while swearing under her breath…actually, it was absurd. He sobered upon seeing the vexation on Edith's face. He was all too well aware that Edith would think he was laughing at her, and nothing could be further from the truth.

Anthony sighed. It was time to put this to rest, once and for all. "Lady Edith…Edith…please stay. Please. I'd…I would very much…I'd be obliged if you would stay and talk with me."

Edith was suddenly exhausted. The façade, the act, the never-ending need to pretend, to protect the precious areas of her life; it had all become tedious and overwhelming. She looked over at Anthony, who was watching her intently, and came to a decision. She had just been wishing for the opportunity to talk with Anthony one more time, and here he was. She decided not to waste it. She gave a short nod of assent and sat down again.

Anthony released the breath he didn't know he was holding, and took the seat opposite. They both of them spent some time adjusting coats and luggage, all the while wondering who would start the conversation. What had seemed like a good idea a minute ago was now looking doubtful, but neither one of them wanted to back out. There were things that needed to be said, and they both knew they might never get another chance.

Anthony started. "I never meant to hurt you. I hope you know that." In retrospect, it was not the best way to begin.

"But you did, you did hurt me. Maybe you didn't mean to, but you did. And you publicly humiliated me," Edith said, working to keep her voice from wavering. "Did you honestly think that it wouldn't hurt, that I would just smile and wish you well? Did you think that everyone would have forgotten about it the next morning? That everyone in the church wouldn't think I was pathetic, or start whispering about my virtue? What exactly did you _mean_ to do?"

Anthony was silent for a moment, and then said, quietly, "I meant to spare you. And, truth be told, myself. You would not have been happy, not in the long run. And I couldn't bear the thought of your hating me for the duration of our marriage."

"I see. So, to _possibly_ save yourself the _possibility_ of pain _possibly_ sometime in the future, you chose to _definitively_ cause me pain in the present, at the altar. Yes, it's all clear now. Thank you so much, Sir Anthony. I feel so much better now." Edith silently gave thanks for her grandmother, without whom she may have never known the gift of sarcasm. It was the only thing saving her sanity at the moment.

This was going badly, very badly. Anthony made to speak, but Edith cut him off.

"Now, this is when you tell me how you did it for my own good, how you wanted me to be free to have a good life with a good young man. How there was no future with you, aging and crippled. Oh, you let yourself hope for a while, but, when it came right down to it – at the zero hour, as it were – you just couldn't be so selfish. So you released me, set me free. The ultimate act of love. Is that about right?"

Anthony was stung by her derision, but calmly said, "I could not give you what you have now."

She barked out loud at that. " _'What I have now'_? What do you know about what I have now? I have no husband, no home, no standing in the community. I have no education beyond what a governess taught me. I have no future, unless you consider taking care of my parents in their old age a future." Edith was fairly trembling with rage. "You're wrong, Anthony. You gave me _everything_ I have now." _How dare he?_

Anthony was quiet for a heartbeat. He looked Edith fully in the face, saw the hurt and anger and accusation there, swallowed the lump in his throat, and softly replied:

"You would not have Marigold."

The only sound in the compartment was the rain against the window.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N I'm sorry this is so long, but I didn't want to break this chapter up. No fluff, lots of angst – sorry! And just to clarify: this takes place after Edith brings Marigold to the Drews, but before she receives word of Michael's death. Thank you again for reading and reviewing!_

Edith felt her world begin to crumble. How did he know? How could he possibly know? She realized instinctively that to try and deny it would be useless. Anthony would never have said anything if he thought it was just a rumor. Her mind was in a whirlpool, trying to grab onto anything that would help to steady and anchor her. Ironic, then, that the man responsible would be the one to throw her a lifeline.

Anthony was alarmed by how quickly Edith went from righteous indignation (thoroughly justified, he knew) to deathly quiet, all the color draining from her face. He needed to make this right, quickly. "Edith, Edith, please…no one told me. This is not some gossip that I'm using to…to…hurt or manipulate you. I just need to make you see what you would not have with me. I shouldn't have said it like that. It's just that I…I… Edith, it's going to be alright. Please believe me."

More out of shock than then anything else, Edith nodded, still unable to say anything. Her whole being had gone numb.

Anthony closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening. _Please, give me the words. Help me get this right. I don't want to hurt her again._

Deep breath. "Alistair Jervas saw you with Mr Gregson at the Criterion, over a year ago. He mentioned it to me in passing; I believe he thought that I would want to know. That you looked so happy, that you appeared to have moved on. And that Mr Gregson seemed to be as happy in your company as you were in his. Allistair didn't know Mr Gregson personally, but someone in his party recognized him.

I was glad to hear of it, although not without some pain, I admit. I had been reading your pieces in The Sketch, and it seemed you had found your voice, were building a life for yourself. Please understand I was not spying on you, not keeping tabs on your whereabouts or your company."

Edith nodded, letting him know she was listening.

"You know that, although I am no longer in the army, I am still…involved, shall we say, with some of the workings of Whitechapel. There are a number of us who were, and still are, very concerned with the situation in Germany. A report reached us of some trouble in Munich, and that an English journalist had gone missing. I didn't pay too close attention at first, but when I learned who it was, I began investigating on my own. I honestly don't know what I thought I would do with the information, but I felt I had to look into it further."

"Do you know where Michael is?"

"No, I don't. But when and if I do, I will let you know, I promise. If that is what you want."

Edith nodded again. "But that still doesn't explain how you know about Marigold."

"Yes. As I said, I wasn't spying on you, but several weeks later I heard that you went to Switzerland, rather suddenly, with your Aunt Rosamund, for an indefinite period of time. And that Rosamund had dismissed her lady's maid prior to the journey, but not before finding her another position in a wealthy household." This earned him a questioning look from Edith. "Have you ever known your aunt to travel without her maid?"

"But that doesn't mean anything…"

"Not to most people, I admit. But I've known Rosamund for fifty years, and women like her don't depart for the continent for an indefinite period without a maid to sort out the porter and baggage and laundry and everything else. It's a minor detail with significant implications to someone in my line of work."

Anthony felt her eyes upon him, knew she was hanging on his every word. "Something wasn't right, and I was concerned about you. I was afraid you were in some kind of trouble, that perhaps your health was frail and you were going to a sanatorium in the Alps – "

Edith cut him off. "Don't lie to me, Anthony, not now." It was Anthony's turn to look confused. "You know quite well that if we were going to some health spa in the mountains, that Rosamund would still have brought her maid if she had to drag her along. Or she would have engaged another one at once." He had the good grace to look slightly ashamed at his attempted deception. She really was brilliant.

"I…forgive me…this is not easy." At that, a dozen different retorts stood ready on Edith's tongue, each more cutting than the next, but she remained silent. He really was trying, and she knew the kind of man he was. She knew that, in this at least, he did not want to hurt or embarrass her any more than necessary.

"It's alright, Anthony. Go on. It's not as if I don't know how the story ends." Edith smiled ruefully. Anthony took that as encouragement.

"While I may not be a 'man of the world' in some respects, I am considerably older than you and not entirely naïve. The world is most definitely changing, but there are some things – especially among our set – that remain the same as ever. Women of your age and station do not take sudden, extended trips to remote parts of the continent with their widowed aunts, leaving behind a burgeoning career as a columnist, to 'improve their French'. And even if they did, it is usually to secure a husband, or at least a fiancé, and they return to England a bride. At the very least, the lady in question does not come back home looking more tired than when she left, if local gossip is to be credited.

"Your return to Switzerland a short time later, coupled with your interest in the newly adopted baby girl at the Drew farm…it wasn't difficult for me to put the pieces together. I've known for several months now." Anthony did not add that he found it incredulous that no one else seemed to have worked it out. Did they still think of Edith as the plain, boring middle sister, incapable of attracting a lover? _What fools_.

Edith's voice was barely audible, and she found she could not look at him. "I could not leave her there. Rosamund was beside herself; she said I was risking everything. But Marigold is my child, and I could not just walk away and leave her. I could not survive it. I couldn't." She looked up at Anthony with fear and anguish and pleading etched in every plane of her face. "Do you think…how many…has anyone else figured it out?" _Please say no, even if it is a lie. Let me have a moment more of this fantasy I've constructed, at least until I figure out what to do._

He saw the battle wage inside her and regretted that he was the cause of it. He reached across and gently grasped her hand in his. "No, I do not think anyone in the village, or among our mutual acquaintances, knows the truth. I have been making very discrete inquiries, and have been listening very carefully since I first suspected anything. I believe your secret is safe." He didn't add the "for now", but they both knew it could not last indefinitely. "I understand why you're taking this risk and, for what it's worth, I believe you're doing the right thing. If not for your reputation, then for your soul." He raised his hand to her cheek and brushed away the tear that had escaped from her eye. "A child belongs with her mother."

This was why she had loved him, perhaps loved him still, if only just a little. Even after all this time, he knew her better than anyone else. Not even Michael understood Edith as well as Anthony did. If things had been different…Edith was suddenly reminded of what had begun the conversation.

"You said that if you hadn't left me, if we had married, that I wouldn't have Marigold," she abruptly said. Edith was glad to move on to a new subject, even if it was only a little less disheartening. She hesitated, searching for the least embarrassing way to continue. "Do you mean that your injury…from the war…that it wasn't just your shoulder?"

Anthony seemed relieved, also, that they seemed to have exhausted the previous subject, and he hoped he was able to ease her mind, if only a little. However, he couldn't say that he was happy to discuss the next one. But he wanted to put the whole matter behind him once and for all, to let Edith know the whole truth. He owed her that.

He let go of her hand (he wasn't aware that he was still holding it) and sat back in his seat, staring out of the window at the rain beating against the glass, gathering his courage and his words. It was best just to get to the point.

"No, Edith. The damage to my shoulder is confined to my shoulder. My inability to father children started decades before that." Despite not being able to look at her, Anthony felt Edith's scrutiny. He knew she was listening to his every word. "Maud and I were married for almost twenty-five years. Twenty-five years, and not so much as a hint of a baby." This was more difficult than he thought.

"When a couple remains childless, more often than not, it is thought that the wife is to blame, that she is the one who has the problem. Even today, but especially before the war. A man – a gentleman, no less – would rarely believe that he could be the one with the problem. I am ashamed to admit that I thought no differently, that I just assumed that Maud's failure to conceive was because of some defect _she_ had. I very magnanimously told her that it didn't matter when, of course, it mattered very much, to both of us. We…"

Here Edith interrupted. A long-forgotten memory had pushed itself to the surface, some servants' gossip from years ago. What was it that Anthony had said? _A minor detail with significant implications…_

"No, that can't be right. I remember when I was about 12 or 13 years old, I overheard some of our servants talking. They said that Lady Strallan had lost a baby. How it was so cruel, after years of disappointment, to have that happen."

Anthony winced at the memory, startled by the pain it evoked, even after all these years. "Yes, you remember correctly. And yes, it was unfair. Maud did get pregnant, and she did lose the baby. But Edith, the child was not mine.

"Being childless…it takes a toll on a marriage, especially when there is a title to hand down, and no heirs to pass it on to. Maude and I became estranged, each of us pursuing different interests, maintaining a polite distance. I buried myself in the estate, in my library, with my contacts in Westminster. Maude found…another interest…"

Anthony paused, unsure if he could continue. Edith gently said the words he couldn't bring himself to say:

"She had an affair."

Anthony nodded, oddly grateful for Edith's interruption. It was so long ago. Why was he finding this so hard now?

"Anthony, you don't have to continue. I understand."

He managed a grim smile. "Thank you, sweet one, but I need to tell you." Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose, gathering his thoughts. "When I learned of the pregnancy, well, simple math told me that I couldn't be the father. I was angry and humiliated and wanted to divorce her. But before I had a chance to decide what to do, Maude had lost the baby.

"It's strange, though. Rather than tear us apart, the whole thing brought us closer together. Not immediately, of course. We had some terrible rows, and there were times when we were both ready to 'pack it in', as they say, but eventually, little by little, things got better. I just accepted that the baronetcy would end with me. Unfortunate, yes, but not the end of the world.

"And then, Maude died. I had lost my best friend." It was getting easier now. "And then, I found myself behind the wheel of a brand-new automobile with a very lovely, very young woman by my side."

Edith smiled. "You made me feel like I wasn't invisible. Like I wasn't second-best."

"You are second to no one, Edith. Don't ever forget that.

"And after the war, when we…when we took up where we left off, and I began to actually believe that we might have a future together, I also began to think about my first marriage, about Maude and everything else. After that night at Downton, after I had proposed to you in the dining room, I knew I had to find out if…if our marriage would be without children."

The train began to slow, signaling the approach to the Downton station. Anthony knew he needed to finish his story.

"Shortly after that night, I made an appointment with a doctor in London. The results were waiting for me when I got back from the picnic at Downton Place. It confirmed what I had long suspected: my second marriage would be as childless as my first.

"I should have told you. I should have gone to you immediately but…I thought…I hoped…" Anthony couldn't finish. He still didn't know exactly why he waited. Fear of rejection, perhaps? Trying to avoid a scene? It all boiled down to the same thing: his cowardice had resulted in his humiliating the woman he loved. She deserved so much better from him.

Edith had remained silent through all this, not wanting to interrupt him. She spoke up now. "You were afraid that if you married me, that I would eventually be unfaithful? Because of your infertility?" Put that way, it sounded so harsh.

He leaned forward. "Partly, yes. But I thought more about what would happen when I was gone, and you were left with nothing. Yes, you'd have the house and the estate, but there would be no children to comfort you. And in all likelihood I _would_ die before you, Edith. Not immediately, but probably when you were too old to remarry and start a family with someone new. You would be alone, and I was afraid you would resent me for that, knowing it was my fault, my selfishness, that led to it. I wanted to give you so much, but am utterly incapable of giving you the most precious thing of all. What I did that morning in the church was unforgiveable, but I hope that now you at least understand why I did it." Anthony sat back in his seat, suddenly exhausted. It was done now, for better or for worse.

A hundred thoughts ran through Edith's mind, but she focused on only one: what would her life be like without her daughter? Even without being able to acknowledge her and be a real mother to her, Edith knew that her life without Marigold would be empty. She wanted to be a mother. Anthony was right. He did the wrong thing, but for the right reasons. And they both had to live with that.

As the train pulled into the station Anthony spied Stewart- his valet and butler and chauffeur- waiting on the platform. "May I offer you a ride home?" Formality began to take its place once again.

"No, thank you. Someone will have left the car for me to drive back." She hesitated. "I appreciate your telling me all this, Anthony. But I honestly am not certain what to make of it just now."

"I understand. But one more thing," he lightly grasped her arm, forcing her to look at him, not caring who might be watching on the platform. "If you should ever need me, for anything at all, I want you to know that you can come to me. I will never, ever turn my back on you." He let go of her sleeve.

"Never again. I promise."

There was nothing left to say.

 _Note: I was never happy with what I perceived to be the ginormous holes in Edith's story-line, so I'm using this fic to make everything work according to my satisfaction. I've taken a slightly different route with their story, and I hope you think it's feasible. Thank you again for all your lovely reviews and encouragement!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to update; I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I felt the story needed a "transition installment" before the final chapter. As always, thank you so much for all the reviews and comments! You have made this so much fun!_

And so they went their separate ways. Anthony returned to Locksley where, after a bath and a light dinner, he retreated into the sanctuary of his library. For the first time in a very long time, he did not sit brooding into the fire, decanter of brandy at his elbow, reliving the past and castigating himself at every turn. While he was hesitant to say they were at peace, he was certain that he had secured at least a truce with Edith. When next they met, he would no longer feel the need to duck his head and hide (or mutter expletives). It was enough to be getting on with, and he slept that night without the nightmares that ordinarily plagued his dreams.

Edith returned to the Abbey where, after informing Moseley that she would not be joining them in the dining room, she headed for the stairs, taking a brief detour into the library where she knocked back a third of a tumbler of her father's best whiskey, polished off a second, considered taking the rest of the decanter with her, thought the better of it, and proceeded to her bedroom. She did not bother to ring for Madge - she could run her own bath and dress herself – and sank down onto the bed. Unlike the gentleman who now sat in his favorite chair in his library, peacefully reading _Cyrano de Bergerac_ , Edith's mind was in turmoil, trying to make sense of what had occurred on the train. Had she known Anthony was suffering no such agitation, she would have been sorely pissed.

She fell back onto the pillows and stared at the ceiling. The same ceiling she had been staring at since she left the nursery for her own bedroom some twenty-odd years ago (minus the few weeks she slept in the Blue Room after the fire). She wondered why, in a house with as many bedrooms as Downton, she never thought to change her room once in a while. Surely she would have enjoyed a room as far away from Mary as she could manage without sleeping in the servants' quarters. Would that have been so difficult?

No, but it would have been unusual (she could just picture Carson's eyebrows shooting up into his hairline). That is not the way things are done. You start in one place and stay in that place until someone tells you when and where to move. And then you are expected to stay there until you receive the next set of instructions. What a ridiculously boring way to live. Edith wondered why she had never thought of it quite that way before.

" _And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself."_

Lady Deadlock's words played in Edith's mind. How similar they were: forbidden lovers, illegitimate children, living in constant fear that someone would find them out. Would she share Honoria's fate?

Edith had already broken the rules by having a job. If her family knew just how many rules she had broken…well, best they didn't know. Despite Granny's insistence that family must stick together, Edith very much doubted that it would be extended to welcoming the bastard child of its least favorite daughter. She considered, yet again, moving to London with Marigold. But the reality of life in London, away from Yorkshire and ostracized from everyone and everything she knew, was daunting. Aunt Rosamund could not be expected to take her in, not this time. And while Bloomsbury society lived by its own, considerably looser rules, she no longer had Michael to help her navigate it. And she was well aware that many at the magazine only tolerated her because of Michael. She would be completely on her own now. Bleak prospect, indeed…

No, she was far too anxious to be truly bored. Boredom bred apathy, and she could not afford to let her guard down for one single minute. She was already beginning to regret how much she revealed to Anthony.

A wildly absurd idea came to her: fetch Marigold from the Drewes and show up on Locksley's doorstep. Anthony said he would never turn his back on her again. Would he take them in, perhaps even offer marriage to Edith a third time? Legitimize the lot of them with a simple "I do"? He owed her, after all. Despite the reason behind his jilting her, she couldn't shake the notion that he stilled owed her…something. A lifetime married to a scarlet woman, supporting a child that was not his, being even more shunned than he already was. Yes, that ought to do nicely.

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped her. Perhaps she should just stop fighting the madness and embrace it like a long-lost friend.

" _I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Edith Crawley what it concedes to the butterflies."_

Edith fell asleep, and dreamt of foggy streets and empty mansions and German graveyards. And piercingly blue eyes looking out at her from a worried face.

Weeks passed and Edith had little time to think about Sir Anthony. She ate little and slept less, and her fashionable figure was slowly morphing into an unfashionable gauntness. Mrs Drewe had forbidden Edith to see Marigold, threatening her husband with leaving if Edith persisted. Edith began to wish she had left Marigold in Switzerland; to have her daughter so close, yet still unattainable, was an unbearable torture.

And then word came: Michael was well and truly dead. Although her intellect had accepted this long ago, her heart was quite unprepared for the news, and she plunged into mourning. His will revealed just how much he loved Edith: he left everything he had to her, with the exception of a stipend for the continued care of his wife Lizzie (Edith thanked God that the lawyer had the sense not to mention that in front of her father). She admitted to no one that as much as she mourned Michael, she grieved the loss of the life she wanted with him even more. Any hope she harbored of the three of them being a happy family died with him. She was more alone than ever.

Her parents were sympathetic in their own way. Isobel and Tom also, while Granny seemed relieved. Mary and Rose were wrapped up in themselves and their own world, so no change there. Edith knew it was too much to expect anyone to grieve for Michael, but she had hoped, rather foolishly in hindsight, for a little more sympathy towards herself. But she had to concede that no one, apart from Rosamund and Granny, knew the full extent of their relationship. Rosamund was on holiday, and Granny …well…Granny had never been the sympathetic sort. So Edith was disappointed, but not particularly surprised.

A letter arrived for Edith in the afternoon post. She recognized the careful handwriting immediately, and retreated to the privacy of her bedroom to read it:

 _Dear Lady Edith,_

 _It was with great sadness that I learned of the confirmation of the death of Mr Michael Gregson. I know that he meant a great deal to you, both as a friend and as a mentor in the publishing world. It is my sincere hope that you seize the legacy he has left you, allow it to be a solace to you at this time, and use it to build your future._

 _Please remember what I said: I am here if you have need of me. You have only to ask. Remember, also, that you are stronger than you realize, and will emerge from this_ _sorrow; wounded perhaps, but unbroken._

 _Until then I remain your most humble and obedient servant,_

 _Sir Anthony Strallan_

The letter was so like Anthony that Edith had to smile. Anyone else reading it would be surprised, perhaps, that he had written, but not suspect the truth. Brief, carefully worded, almost perfunctory on the surface, but filled with hidden meaning and depth.

 _You are stronger than you realize…seize the legacy…build your future…_

 _Seize the legacy…_

She could clearly hear his voice, telling her what she already knew:

 _Take Marigold and run!_

Note: _Quotes are taken from Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. The first is spoken by Lady Honoria Deadlock, and the second, somewhat paraphrased, by Harold Skimpole, one of the most annoying characters I have ever encountered._


End file.
